


Winter's Lady

by thefairfleming



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Kink Meme, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:50:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefairfleming/pseuds/thefairfleming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From ADwD: “I see what you are, Snow. Half a wolf and half a wildling, baseborn get of a traitor and a whore. You would deliver a highborn maid to the bed of some stinking savage. Did you sample her yourself first?"</p><p>As a matter of fact, <em>he did.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Lady

Jon Snow looks very different when he sleeps.

Alys sits back in her chair, curling deeper into the heavy black cloak around her as she watches the even rise and fall of his chest.

The fire in what passes for Lord Snow's solar still burns hot and cheerful, but Alys can feel the cold down to her marrow and even the warm spiced wine she'd drunk earlier has done nothing to chase the chill away.

Her cup is on the ground now, spilling out its dregs on the pelt near the hearth. It must have slipped from her fingers when she'd fallen asleep. She hadn't meant to sleep, had been sure her nerves wouldn't allow her any rest this night.

She suspects her nerves are why Lord Snow spent his evening with her beside his fire, pouring her cups of wine and listening to her chatter about anything and everything. At one point after her third glass of wine, Alys had looked over and noticed the dark hollows under his eyes, the crease between his brows. _He's exhausted,_ she'd thought, _and yet he stays awake, talking to me because he knows I'm frightened of tomorrow._

It had been a foolish thought, one only brought on by the late hour and the wine, she is sure. After all, her wedding was Jon Snow's doing. And while it would rescue her from the predicament in which she'd found herself, she was not so naive as to think this union wouldn't benefit him as well. It was only right that if she should spend this night wide awake and worried, then so should he.

But in the end, they'd both drifted off there in their seats by the fire. Alys isn't sure how long she slept, but she can still feel the wine thrumming in her blood, making her slightly light-headed, so she thinks it cannot have been long. Had she fallen asleep before him? Had he sat in his chair, watching her the way she was watching him now?

The thought is strangely unsettling, causing a pulse of warmth to run through Alys, pooling somewhere in her lower belly. She finds herself leaning forward a little.

 _Sullen,_ she'd thought that first time she'd met him, and she'd been right. In the same way his half-brother had radiated confidence and good humour, so Jon Snow had come across as resentful and brooding.

He does not look sullen now. In sleep, his face is relaxed and open, and Alys suddenly remembers that he is not much older than she is.

He is also, she must admit, handsome. She had spent many years of her girlhood thinking of Robb Stark's blue eyes and auburn curls and easy smile, but Jon Snow had never crossed her mind at all. Now, watching him in the soft light of the fire, Alys admires the way his dark hair curls around his earlobes, the straight line of his nose, and his mouth...

She does not know if one is supposed to think of a man's mouth as beautiful, but Jon's certainly is. Prettier than her own, no doubt, and it must be the wine, it has to be the wine, but suddenly she is standing up and crossing the small space between them.

Jon's legs are spread wide, and she kneels between them, much the same way she knelt at his feet only a few days before, begging for his help. He's still fully dressed, even down to his gloves, and Alys feels something blossom in her chest. How much he must have longed to strip off all these layers and collapse into bed, and yet he hadn't. Instead, he had sat in an uncomfortable chair and listened to her talk of Karhold, of Harrion, even of Daryn a bit. In return, he'd told her stories of Winterfell, even though she'd known his memories of home must pain him.

Alys isn't sure why she reaches up to touch him. Her head is too muddled with wine and sleep to form any coherent reason, although several jumble together: She wishes she could remember Daryn's mouth, and she will not be able to touch any man's lips save her husband's after tomorrow, and after all those years dreaming of Robb Stark, it is his bastard half-brother who has saved her in the end, and she thinks perhaps he is as lonely as she is, and how can any man's mouth be so _lovely?_

Rising up on her knees, she rests her hand against his jaw and swipes her thumb gently across his lips, the barest hint of a touch. _Has any woman ever done this?_ she wonders, surprised to find that she hopes the answer is yes.

In his sleep, Jon gives a soft sigh, turning his head more firmly into her palm, and Alys's heart knocks against her ribs. "Poor boy," she hears herself murmur.

Some distant part of herself sneers. _Poor boy? When he's Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and you're being given to a stranger on the morrow?_

But Alys does not want to listen to that sneering voice now. She wants...Gods, she is not even sure. Her mind is whirling, and her blood is singing, and suddenly, her thumb against his lips is simply not enough.

Alys presses closer, raises higher, and touches her mouth to his. She has only ever kissed someone once- Daryn, before he rode off with Robb Stark. That had been an awkward, hurried affair, his hands gripping her arms too tight, his tongue too demanding, his breath smelling of ale.

This is different. For one thing, she is the only one doing the kissing, at least at first. Jon Snow's lips are soft and pliant beneath hers, and she explores them tentatively. He tastes like the spiced wine, and when his mouth opens, just a bit, Alys wants to lick inside, to tangle her tongue with his own, to _bite._

But before she can do any of that, Jon is suddenly sitting up straight in his chair, and his hand is gripping the back of her head, and he's kissing her back, and... _oh._

There had been a woman before. There must have been. Because surely someone had taught Jon Snow how to kiss like this, as though he would devour her. His lips are fierce on hers, and his tongue sweeps inside her mouth as Alys whimpers and clutches the front of his jerkin, the leather stiff in her grip. The warmth in her belly is a fire now, an ache that makes her want to tug him to the floor and rub herself against him until it eases.

When he finally pulls away, Alys is breathing as though she had just run the entire length of the Wall, every nerve in her body alight.

Jon's eyes search her face, and she suspects the wine and sleep have left him every bit as dazed as she is.

"Alys?" he mutters, almost as though he's surprised to find her there, her face still grasped in his hands, her body firmly lodged between his legs.

She can see him beginning to come back to himself, and in a moment, he will push her away. She can already feel his fingers tensing against her cheeks. Alys may only be a Karstark, but she has known Starks all her life. _More honour than sense,_ her father had said, and for once in her life, Alys is inclined to agree with him.

So she raises her hands to Jon's face, pressing her forehead to his. "We're dreaming," she whispers, and his hands convulsively flex against her skin. "We are dreaming, and tomorrow we will wake up and I will wed Signorn and you will still be Lord Commander and none of this will have happened."

He says her name again, low and husky, and Alys feels those two syllables reverberate through her blood, through her bones, between her legs. And then, before he can come to his senses, she kisses him again.

There's the briefest hesitation, scarcely more than a heartbeat. and then he groans, opens his mouth over hers, and Alys knows she has won.

She lets herself tumble gracelessly backwards, pulling him out of his chair and on top of her. They land on the pelt by the fire, and she hears the distant clink of her wine goblet rolling against the hearth. Jon kisses her hungrily, and Alys finds herself opening her legs so that he can settle more firmly against her. When he does, she gasps, rocking her hips. She may still be a maid, but she is not completely innocent. She has touched that spot between her thighs, moved her legs restlessly in the sheets as she tried to get some kind of relief. But this does not feel like those furtive gropings in the dark. This is something darker and hotter and all together more potent.

When he wrenches his mouth from hers and moves it to her throat, Alys gives a low moan. Jon's teeth nip at the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. "Shhh...," he mumbles against her skin, and of course, she must be quiet, must bite back the cries that bubble to her lips when he moves against her again. Even through his breeches and her gown, she can feel him, and it is all Alys can do not to press herself harder against him.

That mouth, that lovely mouth that started all of this, moves downward, suckling at her breasts, and the combined friction of his lips and the wool of her gown only intensifies the ache between Alys's legs, making her toss her head against the pelt.

 _Please,_ she wants to beg, _pleasepleaseplease._

But she keeps her lips tightly clamped together as he moves down, his hands gathering up her skirts. Only when she feels his fingers against the skin of her inner thigh does Alys push herself up on her elbows and pant, "I want you to."

He pauses, crouched there between her legs, his eyes dark and hot and unreadable. In the face of that stare, all Alys can do is stammer, "I-I'm a maid, but I don't want...I want _you_ to-,"

Something very near a smile crosses Jon's lips. He lowers himself down and pushes at her hose, kissing the inside of her knee. "We should not do something in a dream that cannot be undone in the morning," he says softly, and a pang of disappointment shoots through her. Sigorn does not seem that fearsome for all his size, but it would have been far more pleasing to give her maidenhood to a man she had chosen.

But before Alys can reflect further on that, Jon sinks down and kisses here there, in that spot that only she had explored. His lips and tongue move over her through her smallclothes, and suddenly she does not care that he will not take her maidenhead. She only cares that he never stop what he's doing, not even for an instant.

Head falling back, Alys lets her thighs spread shamelessly wide. He makes a noise that she thinks is meant to be approval, and she can feel it, vibrating through her skin.

Her elbows are no longer strong enough to hold her, and Alys falls back against the pelt, her hands searching for some kind of purchase. They finally fist in her skirts, keeping her gown up above her waist as Jon eases her smallclothes down her legs.

When his tongue touches her bare skin, Alys does not worry about making a noise. Crying out would require breathing, and the steady pull of his mouth against the most private part of her has robbed her off all breath. As he kisses and licks and sucks, all Alys can do is shake and squeeze her eyes shut.

Somehow, that only seems to make the sensations increase. She can feel the warmth of the fire against her side, and the rough scrape of his beard against her almost unbearably sensitive flesh. His hands, still incased in leather gloves, are strong and cold on her hips, and the sound of his mouth working at her has her flushing with embarrassment as well as desire.

Her hand drops from his skirt to twist in his hair, and there's that noise again, that _hum._ Nothing has prepared Alys for this. Not her mother's talk about what was expected from a wife, or her septa's lectures on how children were made, or even overheard servants' gossip. Distantly, she wonders why, for surely if every girl was taught that _this_ was what awaited her at a man's hands...or mouth...

Jon's tongue strokes harder, centering on that one spot, and as Alys remembers those lips, soft and full and relaxed in sleep, she feels everything within her coil and tighten and then, just as suddenly, she is coming apart, her whole body seizing, curling up and in on itself.

His mouth moves to her thigh, then slides to her knee while Alys shivers and tries to make herself open her eyes. When she does at last, he is watching her, cheek against her leg, his lips shiny and wet. From her, she realizes, and she is not sure if the emotion that quakes through her is shame or lust. Perhaps it's both.

"That," she says when she trusts herself to speak, "was perhaps the best dream I have ever had."

Jon chuckles, and some of the shadows seem to disappear from his face. Tomorrow, they'll return, she has no doubt. Just as tomorrow she will don a maiden's cloak and wed Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn and forget she ever spent this night spread beneath Jon Snow's mouth.

But then, Alys thinks as she pushes herself up and reaches for him, tomorrow is still a long way off.


End file.
